


Lords of War

by ProwlingThunder



Category: Yoroiden Samurai Troopers | Ronin Warriors, ノラガミ | Noragami
Genre: A little Introspection, Fandom Cameos, Gen, Gods of War, Lots of Gods, Ronin Warriors: Gaiden, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the strongest Wish Yato's heard in lifetimes. And it's not even directed at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lords of War

**Author's Note:**

> Lets play "spot the cameo".

_Lords of War, grant me the strength to slay my enemies._

The wish resonated through Yato's bones like a tuning fork, louder and sharper than anything he had heard in hundreds of years. It was not to any one God, and there were no names or titles beyond that one-- some of the strongest wishes called for nobody specific, tossed out like a lifeline in hopes someone would grab the end.

Or a net, in hopes they all would.

Yato grabbed the fragile end, feeling a surge of power through himself that was Title, recognized. He was a Lord of War, born in the blood-soaked battlefields of Japan's past, born from a wish so terrible it sparked a new God, a young God, of war, of calamity. That his name was lost to the ides of time meant little, when what he _was_ was being called so directly. 

Yukine watched him intently, hands in his parka, gone strangely quiet. Yato thought they had been discussing something important, but he wasn't sure what it was. 

No one would fault him for answering the wish, even if all the others answered as well, not with the wish as it was. Rabo, did he still live, would have answered it in a single pulse and twist of will. Yato _wanted_ to. It tasted like coming home, blood on his blade, blood on the tip of his tongue. But it _felt_ like a pure wish; a wish to live, knowing those across the field would never let them leave alive. Knowing that life was to lay their bodies in the ground.

But not honorable enemies, Yato realized, peering through hazy memories into his past, testing the veracity of it. It was an ambush, a trap. There was no way out; no open battlefields, no way to retreat, no matter how the act would stain. No enemies were here that might allow a draw, and no allies to support him. No allies who would come.

No hope of survival at all. It was a bitter taste to swallow.

It vibrated through him, an old warrior's wish, half-blinded with pain and determined to turn the wolf away at the door. Determined to die holding all their honor, swift as an enemy's blade might take them, but fearful that it might, all the same.

_Lords of War, grant me the strength to slay my enemies._

“What's that?”

Yato jerked to look at Yukine, tearing his eyes away from the invisible, tangible rope in his hands, waiting for a wish answered. Yukine wasn't looking at him; his gaze was far-away, lost in the distance. His voice was distracted, head tipped to the side like he had heard something.

“What's what?”

“It sounds... like someone's calling me?”

For a moment a flair of panicked rage bubbled in his chest. For someone to call Yukine to their side, someone would have had to mark him, to turn him into a Nora without consent or Yato's awareness. But no; Yato would have known. He would have been able to feel it. And Yukine would have already been in their hands, he would have had no choice, no other options. 

Like the young warrior, who had run out of options.

“Tell me exactly what you hear,” Yato instructed, and Yukine's brows furrowed in concentration.

“I can't tell for sure. It's like I'm listening underwater. Something about... granting strength, I think.”

It wasn't normal for a Regalia to hear a wish. Even a wish so powerful, so broad.

_Lords of War, grant me the strength to slay my enemies._

“There it is again,” Yukine started to turn a circle, trying to locate it. “Can't you hear it?”

Yato drew his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Come on, Yukine, we have a wish.”

It took a long time to travel there; Yato had told Hiyori he would travel to the far reaches of Japan to grant a wish, and he hadn't been lying, but he _had_ been to the far reaches of the country to grant wishes before, and this time, it took longer.

When his feet touched solid ground again, he swept his gaze over the situation.

Like a net, the wish had caught them, and they had answered. There was Bishamonten, bold blond hair as immediate as the lion at her side, come prepared for battle. There was Hachiman and Sumiyoshi, side by side, identical down to their clothing. Sarutahiko, Takeminakata, Marishiten. A handful of miscellaneous others, minor gods who's names were slightly less obscure than Yato's; a scarlet head of hair with a cross-shaped scar there, a high dark tail and triangle-patterned sleeve there, the sweep of a false priestess' robe along the edge. All barely-remembered gods, all ready for war.

Everyone's eyes were fixated on the head of the array, where two wearing scale-mirror armor stood before a six-pointed star, before a blond head of a hair who's attached jaw rested on a still chest, wreathed in white and jade. He hung there like a pariah on the whipping post.

“Seiji,” Futsunushi's voice sounded strangled, anguished. His knuckles were tight on the hilt the blades at his hips, the Regalia quivering. His hair was spun gold, his eyes molten and brokenly furious. “That's her Seiji. Who..” 

“He's called us,” his brother-in-arms rested a hand on his shoulder, his own voice steadier, hair as soft as moonlight. Amaterasu's other general, Takemikazuchi. Who was this mortal, to call so loud, so strong, Amaterasu Herself would be deprived of war-leaders? “Fight with me to free him. We can buy no more time.”

Yato looked up. The walls and ceiling bled Phantoms, filling nearly edge of the room. The floor they stood on was suspended from the ceiling with a single set of stairs leading off it, and beyond that--

A drop into nowhere. Probably. It was hard to be sure, considering it seethed of Phantoms like an endless pit. 

“Yato--!”

“Sekki!” Yato called, already moving as someone's spread powers snapped like spider-threads, releasing stilled Phantoms to freedom. He cut through two before he held Sekki in a sure grip.

 _“He looked like me,”_ Yukine told him, curling his arms around himself inside the blade. Yato could feel him nursing the comfort and certainty of a sword in his hand. He hadn't always used Regalia, but Regalia were always the sharpest.

“We'll free him,” Yato told him, infusing every ounce of confidence he had into the words. The wish had been nothing about freeing, or even saving. But the boy _had_ looked like Yukine, too much so, and it unsettled him greatly. “But for now, fight!”

The Sekki was an extension of his arm. The fight was an old dance. His partners changed, sometimes Restoration-era gods, sometimes old generals in sun-bright armor. He felt Rabo's absence keenly; Rabo may not have come from the Far Shore, but he had ever been at Yato's side in the earliest of days. Worship and blood had come hand in hand to both of them, until denizens of the Near Shore had called them brothers.

Sometimes he fought back to back with plate green armor, who rang with mortal steel to shear Phantoms in half, the Anchor a bold and vivid green mirage behind him, like a sunset-flash.

 _“Lords of War,”_ it echoed in a young man's voice, like lightning through Yato's veins, _“Grant me the strength to slay my enemies.”_


End file.
